House of the Spirits

Dear Diary,

There is nothing like seeing someone you love for the last time. The indescribable feeling of desolation, hitting you like a hard rock hitting glass, shattering into a million pieces, hearing your mother scream in such a pleading shrill of a voice that it captures the attention of everyone a million miles away, or the thought of never having the chance to touch the scruffy beard or hear the bellowing laugh of that person ever again. Uncle Marcos wasn't just any person, he was special. He was the only person the truly understood me. He is the one who sparked my love for reading, creating a passion between every word on a paper and I. My fondest memory of Uncle Marco was when he brought me a crystal ball, which he claimed to have magical powers. He was a clairvoyant person, as am I. He believed that all human beings possessed this ability, particularly his own family, and if it did not function well it was simply due to a lack of training. That may be why he was so doting towards me. Anyway, we decorated a carriage house with some old, dusty curtains that we found in the drawing room. We wore yellow tunics the color of the men of light, as Uncle Marcos liked to call the color. I would whisper in his ear and then with his own revisions he would tell them their future. The word about our talent spread and all those who arrived sad and bedraggled at the consulting left the room filled with hope. We ended up abandoning our carriage house oracle and split the profit because we feared that our advice would alter the fate of our clients. My heart yearns for him to be here with me, so we can talk about magic and the phenomenon, which only we two can comprehend. My mother is calling for me now so I must go.